Of Real Sentiments
by Rainwind
Summary: random depressing drabbles…what some of our favorite characters think and do when they’re alone. One-shot. Each POV is 100 words exactly. New accomplishment! Written when I was depressed, so it’s kind of…yeah. Depressing.


Of Real Sentiments

Summary: random depressing drabbles…what some of our favorite characters think and do when they're alone. One-shot. Each POV is 100 words exactly. New accomplishment! Written when I was depressed, so it's kind of…yeah. Depressing.

Disclaimer: ideas mine, characters not. The end. I'm getting depressed again.

Notes: don't read if you're currently depressed or have chronic depression. I don't want to be that cause of any suicides or anything…it's not that bad, I think. But this is me we're talking about, stomach, mind and heart of titanium-diamond alloys…yeah, so basically it's what characters think to themselves, what they do to themselves in the darkness, their sordid thoughts and secret desires that only come out when they are alone and no one can see them. Accomplishment! Each POV is exactly 100 words, no more, no less, and they actually make sense! Words that are attached by a dash are counted as one word on my computer, so it might not be completely accurate, but whatever. For those of you didn't get that, e.g. He-Who-Is-Above-All-Else, which is actually six words and 19 letters, but on my computer it is one word and 24 characters. Get it?

Of Real Sentiments

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Draco had never liked heat. It took away the numbness, the pain that he needed and thrived on. The dungeons were cold and dark, and that was how he liked it. He loved watching people from the shadows, them so unaware of his presence. He loved standing on a cliff and the thrill of danger, knowing he could fall. He loved snowrainwind, the feeling of being drenched or the wind blowing his hair back and biting at his eyes. He loved being emotionless, numb. And Draco loved the blood. But it was warm. Some things just aren't meant to be.

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Harry waits until the pain becomes unbearable and his tanned skin starts to blister before he moves his hand away from the flame. It's so hot it feels cold, and he starts shaking it and sticks the spot in his mouth, sucking it and relishing the shoots of pain rushing up his arm. Harry always hated cold, cold was the cupboard, sitting alone in the spidery dark. Cold was snow that stung through clothes-holes. Heat was needed and since he had bought the candles, heat was here. He runs hot water over it, feeling the pain, basking in the warmth.

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Hermione loses herself in her books, in the fantasy world, and wishes they could suck her in and she could leave her life behind. The pain is too much to bear, people who she does not love are in love with her, and her love is unreturned. She wants an indolent smirk, a suggestive eyebrow raise or even a good look, anything that says they might be more than friends. She wants to be loved. She wants the scars gone. She wishes she could for once take action and not just imagine everything. Her unreal world is enough for now.

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Ron smashes the glass in the photograph once again, watching as it magically repairs itself. They are all – and have always been – better that him, even his younger sister. Most of them even look better than he does. He acts happy and normal in public, but the bitterness threatens to take over him again, leaving him with nothing but hatred for those he should love. Why were they better than him? He glares and scowls, smashing things, but it changes nothing. The spiders crawl in, the clock ticks and he raises the hammer again, bringing it down to shatter glass.

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Ginny smiles and welcomes the darkness into her mind. Long over the Harry Potter crush and aware that people look at her as far more than friend these days, all she needs is darkness and herself and the lingering presence of Tom. To keep up appearances she dates and keeps them going for a while before dropping them. No one seems to have noticed how positively Slytherin she is. Tom was her savior; he brought her out of the lies and into the truth. So when he told her that scars were good for you, she listened and she scarred.

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Lucius takes another sip of the strong alcohol and drinks his problems away. The black on his forearm glares at him and he recalls how he just managed to convince the ministry to let him go. He is free to do whatever he bloody well wants. The gleaming spirit relaxes him, and he wishes he hadn't killed Narcissa. He could use some entertainment. Though nothing is as good as at the World Cup a year and a half ago, it comes fairly close to see Draco bite his lip to stop from screaming. Blood splatters and Lucius urges more out.

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Tom smirks and stretches out, putting pale arms behind his head. His young, limber body is back and as desirable to both males and females as before. He lazily twirls his wand in his fingers and watches the crystal ball show him his obsession. She will soon be his again. Long, red hair and hazel eyes with green streaks in them, she smiles vivaciously and watches the boys drool over her. His eyes narrow. She is his. He has seen the mudblood watching, knows all their secrets. They will pay for what they did to him. They will definitely pay.

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Albus lets the tear run a slow track down his weathered face. It feels good to cry, sometimes, in the dark he so rarely has access to. He wishes they knew. He knows but the others won't let him tell anyone, and he knows that if they don't know then everything will be lost. It is right in front of their faces. Why can't they see it? It will kill them. It will kill them and the guilt will fall on his shoulders, for not telling them. More tears roll down his cheeks and now he wants them to stop.

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Snape screams in his dreams, twisting and turning and waking to blood dribbling out of his mouth and down his chin, face contorted with mindless horror until he composes himself and untangles his sheets from around him and goes to the toilet to wash up. The eyes that stare back at him from the mirror are hauntingly empty, frightened and wide with horror. The poor children…but he can't show weakness. He closes his eyes and when they open they are flat and emotionless again. He prepares himself for the trying day ahead. He never was good at resisting the Cruciatus.

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Neville lowers his eyes, looking at his shoes, the no-longer pudgy hands twisting in front of him, and follows his grandmother out of the hospital room. He looks just like his father now, but with his mother's round face. He is them, but they are still here, and it hurts to know that they will never be parents. Once again, fury surges through him, and hatred twists his senses and he wants to KILL the thing that did this to them. He will go to school, the hatred will burn and he will seem normal to everyone else, as usual.

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Narcissa watches from her white place above, next to Potter and Evans-Potter and Black and all the others sympathetic to the plight of those on earth, those doomed to live. She, personally, is glad she is out of the hellhole. She feels sorry for the people, all killing themselves slowly, unwittingly, but she feels better knowing that she is out of the endless cycle. She was always a self-concerned person, and now that she is free she can be as vain as she wants to be. She looks around at those around her, and is glad while they are sad.

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He-Who-Is-Above-All-Else, AKA God, watches Harry, Draco and Snape scream themselves hoarse and writhe in agony, one at the hands of his half-master and the others at those of their guardians, watches Hermione wake with inked words imprinted onto her face, watches as Ron wakes with shards of glass lodged in his cheeks, watches as Dumbledore sinks into depression, Lucius smiles, Ginny orgasms, Tom smirks, Neville seethes and everyone else turns restlessly in their sleep, and quotes Shakespeare when he thinks, 'what fools these mortals be!' Except he adds, 'I'm glad I'm not one,' before smiling and turning his attention elsewhere.

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So that's it. It wasn't that depressing, was it? I don't need reviews, but they're kinda fun to read. So if you're like me, too lazy to press the button and type, you don't have to review. I don't want anyone to feel like they're obligated to. If you want to, be my guest! I think I did a pretty good job of opinions and sounding British and all, but if I have any mistakes, let me know. Man it feels good to get that out of my system. It's been lurking there for a while, a black plot rabbit with glowing red eyes, wanting to be written but poisoning my system as long as it wasn't, so because it's finally been puked up and into my computer, I feel a whole lot better. Probably why I'm so…perkish 9which I have just decided is a sort of plural to perky)…right now.

I liked the ending. I don't know why. I sort of alternate between atheism and…what's the opposite term? Religiousness? No idea…but if you don't believe in God or Heaven, that's okay, because I don't believe that Hell exists. Everyone has their opinions, and these are mine, and I try not to have opinions on other peoples' opinions, so please keep your opinions but don't get opinionated on my opinions.

That was fun. Are you confused yet? Because that was sort of the idea. Anyways, if you're still reading this, it's going to end right about nowish, so stop reading. I love you if you're still reading this.

Jeez I'm in a good mood. Must…read…something…depressing. See ya!


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